Obituary: The Gulled One Has Pecked the Bucket

"A local oddity no more"

The Editors,
Times Staff

Those whose noses know the stench of fried salty Salisbury air should prepare for tears…
For it is the solemn responsibility of the staff here at the Surreal Times to report on the passing of one Carèt “Egg” Ozoné, whose manifesto “An Ode to the Gulls” was set upon the world in our previous issue. To the joy of our sadness and grief, he was found dead on the beach with his hair braided with french fries and his brain riddled with pecking holes.

Carèt lived a life in between the footsteps of a Sidewalk philosopher. Although the man’s history is more a mystery, he has become quite the myth echoing in and out of ears and mouths around the shores of Salisbury MA.

His mission as “Gulled One” consumed all of his time both waking and dreaming. He is remembered as a local icon immortalized in the talk of the town, so much so that locally to be “one gull awry” means “loony” in his honor, but it means even more to his memory

Although he never managed to find any close friends outside of his Gulls, he did manage to catch the attention of famed filmmaker and lecturer in Weirdology at Harvard John Waters:

“Oh yeah, I remember that old Loon, out there till the moon got tired the of the night. Sometimes you couldn't even tell him apart from the birds when they'd all swarm after a piece of Tripoli's pizza.”

“I’d thought about putting him in a film, but when I asked him about it, he stared right past my eyes and asked ‘How would the seagulls fit into the theater seats? And how would they read the subtitles?’ His mind saw the world through a child kaleidoscope, naivety nursed insanity”

Although Ozoné left behind no written will, his constant rambling and graffiti-seeded footsteps made it quite clear that if ever he were to die, he’d want his brain to be transplanted into the skull of a seagull named Larry, Caret claimed was “already his reincarnated self, so what be the difference.” He seemed completely unaware of the twisted butterfly loop needed to allow that sort of thing. That hiccup was no deterrent, while still (somewhat) amongst the living his still ticking heart was set on the surgery.

In honor of his contribution combined with our sense of masturbatory curiosity to boot, The Surreal Times reached out to a platter of local brain surgeons both above and below board. So far none have agreed to the experimental surgery. One such surgeon, who wishes to remain anonymous, remarked:

“Are you serious, you’re as crazy as he was. Listen, there wasn't much mind left in his cap if you know what I mean, and what's left of his brain has been claimed by the ocean. Now leave me be. my handwriting won’t obscure my notes by themselves!”

Perhaps that is for the best, never minding the gruesome “how” surrounding Carèt’s death. The “why” to the side of it is clear: He died doing what he loved, the only thing he ever knew, feeding seagulls far more than food. [Asterisk from the 4th wall as this reporter wrote this line a seagull defecated on my window, I simply responded it’s nice to hear from you] His ashes will be made into a pizza sauce and scattered upon his beach for the seagulls to take back.

In astonished memory of Carèt “Egg” Ozoné, The Gulled One, November 2018

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